


Baanjhapan (Infertility)

by TNKT



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Best Friends, Blood and Injury, Denial of Feelings, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Injured Sherlock, Injury Recovery, John Watson is also Bad at Feelings, M/M, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9267389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TNKT/pseuds/TNKT
Summary: Holmes and Watson are partners. They've trusted each other with their lives more than a couple of times.Holmes loves the wild adrenalin of solving a murder case.Watson loves the comfort of Mary's presence in his life.However, when Holmes has one too many brushes with death, feelings between the two friends start to emerge.Feelings that are a bit too complicated to understand, especially for the world's greatest detective.[On hold]





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't you remember being saved by me twice already?"

Holmes looks up from his newspaper to focus on the doctor's displeased face. As Watson waits for his reply, the sound of a bell ringing wafts in through the open window, cutting through the constant clopping and creaking which accompanies the flow of carriages that travel up and down Baker Street.  
The detective raises his eyebrows and looks up at the ceiling while he rememorates the events. "Hm... Well, I believe there was the time with the adrenalin shot, which I was the one to make, by the way, so that doesn't count. And then the other time..."

He looks back at his friend with a clueless expression. "I'm afraid I don't remember."  
Watson sighs wearily. "Back at the construction site, when you were being chased by that humongous monster of a man."  
"Oh, that's right!" exclaims the detective. "I was hit over the head at the time, mind you, I was slightly out of sorts. What was it that happened again?"  
"You were going to get crushed by a giant steel wheel. I could've died saving you, you know."  
"Ah yes, I remember feeling squeezed between the ground, two metal beams and you. A cozy predicament it was."  
Watson breathes in, presses two fingers to his forehead and closes his eyes. "The point is, I've saved your arse quite a few times already. So could you please tell me _why_ you keep putting yourself in danger? Why is it that when I come home, you've always got blood somewhere on you?"

Holmes looks down at his clothes and notices the blood seeping through the white shirt. Maybe white wasn't the best choice, he realizes, when he just got injured and patched himself up in a very approximate manner.  
He looks up at the doctor again and smiles awkwardly. "...It's not mine?"  
Watson shakes his head and goes to grab his medical kit, leaving Holmes alone in the living room. The detective leans back in the chair with a sigh, letting the pain spread through his body. He can easily pretend he feels fine in front of the doctor, in fact he grabbed the newspaper and feigned indifference as soon as he heard the door open downstairs, but it's useless to hide how much pain he's in now.  
He should've known the doctor would notice- Watson is an experienced man and his friend after all.  
He closes his eyes. He knows Watson would feel much more at ease if he stopped meddling with dangerous affairs, but he can't help himself. Even if he tried to get a healthier occupation, he would go crazy with boredom and he'd still try to find a case. Understanding and revealing the inner workings of twisted minds isn't just an addiction to him, it's as primal a need as breathing.

"You look like you're on the brink of death."  
Watson's voice snaps Holmes out of his thoughts and he opens his eyes, staring at the doctor. The man is next to the table and shaking his head as he sifts through the contents of the kit, and he seems to be talking more to himself than to the detective.  
"Pale as a ghost, dark circles under your eyes... I bet you lost so much blood that if you were to stand up right now, you'd topple right over." The doctor straightens while he mutters and walks over to his sitting friend.  
"It's true that I've been feeling a bit faint," says Holmes as the doctor crouches in front of him and starts checking the color of his eyelids, "but it's just a spell."  
Watson frown and clicks his tongue. "I knew it. Anemia. You just never know when to stop, do you?"  
The detective has a smile that looks almost apologetic, but Watson knows better. His friend isn't sorry, he's never sorry about anything. Holmes answers: "It's in my nature to never know when to stop."  
"Then at least call me at work, don't just let yourself bleed out on the floor like that," answers Watson in an indignant tone. "Blood loss goes fast, you know, you should be careful."

The doctor then leans closer to the bleeding spot and reaches for the shirt.  
"Wait-"  
Holmes doesn't have the time to stop the doctor as he lifts the shirt up to uncover the wound, and he jolts in pain when the fabric is peeled off his bloody skin. Watson stares at it, and then looks up at the detective.  
"You went boxing again."  
"No."  
"Don't lie to me, Sherlock, I can see that bruise on your ribs. I told you you should wait a bit longer before going back. Please, for the love of god, don't tell me you went there after getting hurt."  
"Well, no."  
"What do you mean, 'well, no'?" frowns the doctor.  
"It happened there, but it was after the fight," specifies Holmes.  
The doctor closes his eyes, breathes in and purses his lips. Then after a moment of silence, he asks: "How did it happen?"  
"I may... have irked some of the spectators."  
"Sherlock..."  
"And one of them had a knife."  
"Sherlock..."  
"He caught me by surprise, there were a lot of people there and I didn't see him!" retorts the detective defensively.  
"That's not the point!" exclaims Watson as he takes a bottle of desinfectant out of the kit. "You really need to find yourself a better instinct of self-preservation. And what is that sorry excuse for a bandage?" he asks with a frown, pointing at the mess of blood-soaked pads and tape stuck to the detective's flank.  
"I tried," says Holmes.  
"Well you failed," answers Watson. "At least you have the presence of mind to go straight home after getting wounded like that."  
"I'm not an idiot, John."  
"I disagree," says the doctor sternly while he pulls the messy bandage away from Holmes' skin. The detective tenses up and hisses, but Watson pays no attention to that. "I'm sure you didn't even disinfect the stab wound. You're extremely lucky it didn't reach an artery or an organ, else you would've died right then and there. If you weren't such an anti-hospital kind of person, I would've brought you there myself."  
"Their nurses are inhumanely loud-"  
"I know, you already told me that." The doctor wipes the blood away with the wet cotton swab and when the site is clean, he studies the wound a bit closer. "It's not too deep. You have the luck of the devil, you know that?"  
"I know, you already told me that."  
The doctor glances up at the detective, who is looking at him with an obviously smug expression. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and looks back at the wound. "You are such a child."

Both men fall silent as he finishes fixing the clean bandage around Holmes' waist, and then he pulls the stained shirt over it and stands up.  
"I'll change it again tonight, but don't try moving around too much."  
The detective leans to the side to grab the newspaper again, ignoring the pang of pain the movement elicits. "What if there's a case?"  
"Then the case can wait!" answers Watson angrily.  
"Rest assured, John, it was merely a rhetorical question. Don't work yourself up into such a tizzy."  
"I can never rest assured with you, Sherlock. Never. You know that."  
The detective glances at his friend's turned back, but he doesn't answer. He does know that, and he isn't going to apologize for it, no matter how reproachful Watson may be. Why should he?  
He looks back down at the newspaper, and listens to the rustling of the doctor's clothes while he gathers up the medical supplies without a word, his footsteps soon subsiding to the stairs. Holmes is left alone in the living room and for some mysterious reason, he feels vaguely remorseful. He remains hidden behind his newspaper until he hears Watson's door creaking shut, and then lets the paper drop to his lap. He tries to understand why he feels this way, but the reason keeps eluding his thoughts and he decides it isn't worth the trouble to keep thinking about it. Besides, he has other things to think about, like the new lead he found this morning.

He lied to Watson, he didn't get stabbed at the fighting pen. Someone got the drop on him while he was walking down the street: he hadn't been cautious enough because he'd thought they wouldn't try to shank him in broad daylight. He'd managed to wriggle out of the attacker's hold, but not before getting stabbed. Fortunately the individual hadn't been able to keep his hold on the weapon, Holmes had made sure to twist their wrist out of his side so that they'd let go of it. They'd fled as soon as his hold had weakened, and he'd only been able to catch a glimpse of their dark outfit and braided hair. It had been enough for him to know where they came from and why they'd attacked.

The figure he'd seen was that of a woman: the wrist he'd caught had been thin and the individual of small size.When he'd forced his attacker to let go of the weapon, he'd turned on himself and grabbed their upper arm, feeling the friction between thin, supple fabric and a solid surface under his fingers. His attacker had been quick and limber, sliding out of his grasp almost as soon as he'd grabbed them, but they hadn't been fast enough. He'd had the time to feel nine regular bumps on one side of the arm, organised in a rectangle with the ninth bump in its center.  
Then he'd seen the braid fly when his attacker had turn around to flee. It was a fairly common type of braid, but with the tan skin and dark hair, he'd deducted that the arm ornament the woman was wearing under her black clothes was a bazuband with navaratna, and that his attacker was indian.  
He'd suspected that the current case was linked to a foreign population, but he hadn't been sure which until then.  
He'd wanted to take a look at the weapon as well, but when he'd searched for it the dagger had disappeared. His attacker had been careful to leave no traces of their deed. He'd been left empty-handed in the alley, but only literally.

Holmes hears the door to his friend's room creak open once more, so he raises the newspaper back up and smiles to himself. He knows Watson has planned to go out with Mary this evening, some fancy restaurant and whatnot. On any other day, he would've loved to come along and intrude on their precious time together, but he knows he has to move fast to put an end to the case, and that means going tonight.  
"Sherlock."  
The detective looks over the paper nonchalantly and answers, "Watson?"  
His friend has an eyebrow raised and he points a finger at the newspaper while adjusting his golden cufflink. "Have you been reading the very same paper since I've left the room?"  
Holmes throws the newspaper to the side. "No. I mean yes. What I mean is that I've read it once and now I'm rereading it."  
The doctor smiles, switching to his second cufflink. "Ah, so that's why you were exactly on the same page as earlier."  
"Exactly. Have you been honing your observation skills?" asks Holmes with feigned surprise and interest.  
Watson chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm going out with Mary this evening. I thought I'd let you know-"  
Holmes opens his mouth, a conceited smile already forming on his lips."I-"  
"-although I'm sure you already know about it," continues Watson before the detective can finish his smug answer. Holmes scowls and leans back in his seat. "I suppose I don't have to tell you not to come with me, as you must surely know that this is a date."  
Holmes shrugs. "Of course not. I wouldn't want to ruin it for you."  
"Really?" Watson seems surprised, but he soon becomes wary of the detective's easy answer. "Can I trust you not to go back on your word?"  
Holmes waves his doubts away. "Yes, yes. Don't worry your handsome little head over it. Forget about me, just for tonight."  
Watson frowns. "I somehow question your goodwill. Can I safely assume that you will not do anything rash while I'm gone, such as running after criminals?"  
Holmes grins widely. "I shall be the spitting image of obedience for tonight. Now go, come on, or you will make a beautiful lady wait for your arrival. It wouldn't be a very gentlemanly thing to do, now would it?"  
Watson sighs and grabs his overcoat, but just before walking out of the living room, he turns around and wags a warning finger at the detective. "I swear, Sherlock, if I find you injured in any way upon my return, there will be hell to pay."  
Holmes sweetly smiles at him and answers: "Yes, mother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey pumpkin.  
> I know Sherlock is usually perceived as an unfeeling smart-mouthed prick, especially in the original books, the BBC series, etc. but I feel like in the Ritchie movies, he's not depicted like that. In those movies he's just a smart-mouthed prick. I mean, they replaced the drug abuse with alcohol, so you won't be seeing any drugs in this story for example. What I want to say is, don't be surprised by Sherlock's existing emotions from the very start of the story! However, I'd really like to know if you agree with me.  
> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you feel like it!


	2. Chapter 2

It's the next morning that Holmes returns home. He curses internally at his own incompetence: he should've found a way to come back earlier, at this hour of the day the streets are so crowded that it's practically impossible to go against the flow. The fact that he has a hole in his side doesn't really help either.  
Then again, maybe it's good thing there are so many people. No one pays attention to him. No one stops him to ask if he's alright. He's not sure he could keep standing if anyone stopped him.

Finally he sees the door to his flat, and he feels relieved. Home. It seemed so far away when he started his odyssey back. He can feel sweat trickling down the side of his face, his clenched jaw trembling with the pain as he holds his right side to try and stop the bleeding. He knows he's probably over-exerted himself. He hopes Watson is home so someone can tell him how bad his injury is. He hopes it's not too bad. He doesn't want to lose time recovering.

He slams his free hand heavily against the door, then drags it down to the knob and struggles with it a good two minutes before the door finally gives way. He almost falls face first, but fortunately his hand clutches the doorknob in a spastic reflex and holds him back. When he regains his balance, he slowly lets go of the door and takes a step forward.  
Watson's voice rings out from the first floor. "Sherlock, is that you?"  
The detective doesn't answer, his tongue feels heavy and pasty. He doesn't close the door behind him, stumbling to the side, and his shoulder hits the wall. He doesn't try to right himself and lets himself slide down the wall, his hand still holding onto his bleeding side.  
He hears footsteps coming down the stairs but he doesn't bother looking up.  
"Sherlock?!"  
The footsteps become faster and suddenly he sees someone kneeling in front of him.

Watson grabs the slumped detective by the shoulders and calls out to him, worry rushing down on him when he sees Holmes' head loll to the side, revealing a sweaty, pale face and very unfocused eyes. The doctor grabs his friend by the chin and straightens his head, noticing how cold and clammy the skin under his fingers feels.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
The man doesn't respond and Watson lets go of his head, instead going for the pulse at his neck. He purses his lips when he feels the thready pulse under the tip of his fingers and his eyes latch onto the red stain spreading across Sherlock's side.  
"Shit."  
He straightens and runs to the phone, dialing the hospital, and someone soon picks up on the other side of the line. He doesn't let them speak, immediately presenting the situation.  
"Hello, my name is John Watson and I have an unconscious 36 year old man with me, he's still breathing, but he's unresponsive when I call out to him. He's bleeding heavily from the right flank, and I need immediate help at 221B Baker Street."  
"All right sir, we're on our way. You need to make sure that he's-"  
"I know what to do, I'm a doctor, just hurry and tell me if I can hang up."  
"Yes, you may, we-"  
Watson slams the phone back down and hurries back to his friend's side, grabbing a coat on the way to cover Sherlock's body with it, and tries to get him to react.

"Sherlock, stay with me. Can't have you dying on me like last time, remember?" he says while pulling the coat over the man's prone shape. "You have to stop bleeding out like this, it's taking its toll on me, you know."  
He then kneels next to the detective, removing the man's nearly limp hand from his side and pressing the wound.  
"Sherlock, just blink or something. Show me you're still there."  
The detective keeps staring at the ground, his eyelids half closed and unmoving. Watson keeps his hand where it is, and his other reaches for Holmes' pulse once more.  
"I know you can hear me, you bastard. Don't you dare die on me," he says in a low voice.  
His friend's skin seems to be getting colder by the minute and it scares him. He doesn't know if it's a product of his imagination, and he's very frightened that it might not be.  
"You already did this to me once, I don't want it to happen again. You didn't give me any adrenalin, what am I supposed to do if you die here? Did you think about that? What do I do if you die?"  
Watson looks down at the wound, at the red blossom staining his friend's clothes, and he curses. It's no use getting angry at an unresponsive friend, but he wishes he could knock some sense in Holmes. He told him to stay still for the night, he told him, what's wrong with him? The doctor looks back up and to his horror, the detective's eyes are closing.  
He instantly grabs Holmes' cheek with his clean hand, jerking his friend's head towards him. The detective's eyes twitch open once more.  
Watson snarls in his face: "No, Sherlock, you're not closing your goddamn eyes, you hear me? You're staying with me! Sherlock, don't you dare."  
The detective's eyes remain empty despite them staring right at Watson, but they don't slide shut. For once, Holmes obeys.

Watson soon hears the characteristic sound of a carriage pulled by horses creaking to a stop in front of the flat and he turns around without letting go of Holmes' head, calling out to the ambulance.  
"Over here, the wounded is inside!"  
Two men enter the flat and Watson steps back, letting them do their work. His expression doesn't do justice to the extreme worry he's feeling, and he tries to stay calm as they load Holmes inside the carriage. He feels like screaming at them to handle him better, to be careful with his side, to stop hurting him, but at the same time he knows it's their job. He may be a doctor, but they know better than him how to handle wounded patients until they reach the hospital. He watches them settle his pale friend in the ambulance, and then the wheels start creaking again, and the carriage rolls away.

Suddenly it's gone, and Holmes with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey pumpkin.  
> Yeah, Sherlock dun fucked up. Thought he was too cool for school, ended up bleeding a river. Poor Watson.  
> Thanks for reading, leave a comment if you feel like it!


End file.
